The Rock Pile

Friday, 11-13-2015, 0830, Wind N 5 knots, 52 degrees F, out-going current on a falling high tide.

Anchored with six other boats in this narrow creek, among them our friends on Illusion and the indefatigable, seventy-seven year old single-hander Tom Murphy on Monday Morning.

We motor out into the ICW, passing Nixons Crossing where the gambling boats lay waiting for the next group of boneheads. Onward to the start of the Rock Pile, a narrow, windy stretch of the ICW with rock ledges bordering the edges. That’s ‘edges have ledges’, not to be confused with ‘ruffles have ridges”.

The U. S. Corp of Engineers made the rock pile when they blasted the channel from granite bed rock years ago. They piled the spoil on each side, some of which has ‘migrated’ out from the ledge. At low tides (and the tide change in these parts is on the order of four feet) the passage narrows and obviously becomes more shallow.

"Securite, securite, securite. This is sailing vessel Flicka entering the north end of the Rock Pile at mile marker 342 at 1000 hours, south bound. I repeat securite, securite, securite. This is sailing vessel Flicka entering the north end of the Rock Pile at mile marker 342 at 1000 hours, south bound. Over."

This is the message we transmit over VHF channel sixteen, the open channel monitored by all vessels and the U. S. Coast Guard, used to hail other vessels, report hazards to navigation, make distress calls, etc.

Sixteen is not for talking to Bubba about the latest Skoal product or for fish stories or radio dating.

We are announcing that we are entering the Rock Pile to alert other users of this dangerous area, especially barges and other large commercial craft, of our intent to traverse, in hopes that they won’t run us the hell over.

We had planned this morning to pass through the Rock Pile at as close to high tide as possible, which we did. Good on us. No mishaps or north bound traffic this morning.

Onward passed the Grand Strand Airport, Atlantic and Myrtle Beaches and through the Socastee (sock it to me) swing bridge.

“Socastee Bridge, Socastee Bridge, Socastee Bridge, this is sailing vessel Flicka south bound, ten minutes from the bridge, requesting permission to pass. Over”, I say importantly.

“Good morning. What’s your hailing port captain?” the bridge troll says more casually. “And do you have and small dogs aboard?” he says in a slightly menacing tone.

“Socastee Bridge, this is sailing vessel Flicka. We hail from San Francisco, CA and we have no small dogs aboard. Can we interest you in some raw chicken?” I add politely.

“Bridge trolls do not eat chicken Flicka. Chicken is for you weak stomached humans. Are you toying with me?”

“Socastee Bridge, this is sailing vessel Flicka. No sir. My sincerest apologies. Over.”

“Alright Flicka. Pull up to the bridge. I’ll get you through, but when you pass this way again make sure you have a small dog or two aboard.”

“Socastee Bridge, this is sailing vessel Flicka. Yes sir. Thank you and have a nice day. This is sailing vessel Flicka clear the bridge and south bound.”

Whew! Made it past another bridge troll.

Onward, past Bucksport and into the Waccamaw River, a beautiful tidal river flowing through cedar swamp wetlands and finally to anchor at 1530 on a bend in Bull Creek on a strong outgoing tide.

By ourselves now, an occasional small camouflaged boat comes by with one or two crew aboard, wearing camouflaged hats, face muffs, jackets, pants and boots, with camouflaged shot guns resting on camouflaged coolers. What the fuck are these guys hiding from?

1545. The sun is setting. Very quiet now except for the sound of water gurgling past the hull and a solitary Barred owl’s plaintive call echoing down the waterways.

Hoo hoo ho-ho hoo hoo ho-oooooooawr (“who cooks for you, who cooks for you-all”)

Tomorrow more of the Waccamaw, on to the Great Pee Dee, the Esterville Minin Creek Canal and other exotic places on the ICW.